


The Tourney

by junsnow



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jon was raised in King's Landing, Jousting, Rhaegar lived AU, Sansa is Jon's Queen of Love and Beauty, a little bit of ..., jealous!Jon, kinda cheesy tbh, some background robbaery for my friend sam ;), tourney
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-29
Updated: 2018-06-29
Packaged: 2019-05-30 15:02:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15099245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/junsnow/pseuds/junsnow
Summary: Jon imagined what it would be like, to sit next to Sansa and watch as Aegon or some other knight won the lists and her affections by crowning her his queen of love and beauty. Aegon would kiss her again and ask for her hand. He imaged Sansa walking into the Great Sept of Baelor in a beautiful ivory gown towards his half-brother, Aegon fastening his cloak upon her shoulders. And years into the future, Sansa’s belly growing with his brother’s child.No. No, no, no, his insides screamed. It was too much. The images took the breath from him, hitting Jon like a punch to the gut. That would not do, he realized, and with no little astonishment—all this time, Jon had wanted her for himself.





	The Tourney

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you Ari for your help with this. Love you to pieces.

Ever since his mother’s family arrived in King’s Landing, Jon had not known peace. He was fond of them, truly, and always felt at home when he would visit them at Winterfell. Now, though, the Red Keep was bursting with northmen. There was never a quiet moment to be had. Every day, when Jon practiced with sword and lance they would be there, dozens of them ringing their steel in the courtyard; sometimes, his female cousins would be looking on with the other ladies of the court, whispering and giggling amongst themselves, though little Arya looked more interested in joining them than sitting with the girls. If Jon went for a quiet ride in the Kingswood, he would cross paths with a large hunting party led by his uncle, or Sansa and Arya going for a ride with several young members of the court. Feasts were being held near every night for their guests, with their loud singing and dancing and drinking, and Jon, as the king’s son, was expected to attend every single one.

He tried not to sulk as his half-brother Aegon played the gracious host to his cousin Sansa. He did not know why it bothered him so much, how much attention men were paying her now; perhaps because she was his family through his mother, and he felt a need to protect her. It was a daunting task, in a place like King’s Landing. While no harm would come to a highborn girl such as Sansa with her father’s men to protect her, he still felt weary of the dangers that prowled at court. The thought of one of the ambitious southern lords tricking his uncle into giving away her hand made Jon’s blood boil—the thought of her hand being granted to one of the boisterous northmen instead was scarcely better, but he did not dwell on that puzzling thought.

It made sense, truly, that Sansa would be such a target for male attention. The last time Jon had seen her was a few years past, during his last visit to the North, and while she had always been pretty, he could not have predicted her becoming so astoundingly beautiful. In truth, Jon was a bit taken back at first, when their party arrived to the city. The royal family had ridden out to welcome them at the gates. The sun was shining relentlessly that day, making him sweat underneath his doublet, but Jon could no longer find a reason to complain when he saw the way it made her long hair shine like copper. Sansa was the very picture of a lady when she dismounted and curtsied, smiling while her high cheekbones flushed with the exertion of the ride. While her body had changed, her long frame blossoming with a woman’s curves, her eyes remained as innocent and pretty as ever. It reminded him of the shallow waters of the sea on a summer’s day. Sometimes at night, he would dream of them staring up at him, and wake up in a sweaty heap, unable to sleep again.

For tonight’s feast, Jon donned a black velvet doublet, embroidered with a pattern of his mother’s and father’s sigils in silver thread. His father had warned him not to look so haggard since the last feast, so Jon made an effort to look more princely, even going as far as tying back his dark curls in a tight bun and shaving off his beard. The feast was in full swing when he arrived, with music and talk echoing loudly through the hall.

The Starks were already there; his uncle and aunt sat next to his father in polite conversation, Arya and Bran stood off to the side listening to Ser Barristan the Bold tell tales one of his glorious victories. Robb was making eyes at Margaery Tyrell from the other side of the room, while Rickon was stuffing his face with sweets until Jory Cassel came over and lifted him off and away from the table. Jon found Sansa nursing a cup of wine with his sister. Rhaenys looked up when he arrived, inviting him over to join their talk. With a lump in his throat, he did.

“Brother, how kind of you to join us. I was beginning to think you drowned in your bath. At least you look clean now, much less like a northman.” His sister’s words sounded mocking to many, but Jon knew she only meant to tease. “Look, Sansa, he even shaved his beard! A rare sight. Indeed, we should count our blessings. Don’t you think he looks handsome, my lady?” She turned to Sansa with a curious look.

Sansa blushed slightly before answering in an even tone, “yes, he does. Though I must say I prefer the _dirty_ northern look. I like your hair better with the curls hanging free.” Jon felt his own cheeks flush, so he turned his face away, pretending to have a look at the room, but not before catching his sister’s sly smile.

“Well, it looks like Lord Gyles’ cough is back with a vengeance. I better get the maester before he spits his lungs all over the food.”

Jon didn’t bother checking if Rhaenys was telling the truth, instead, he took his opportunity to finally have a good look at Sansa without his sister’s watchful eyes and sharp tongue ready to tease him. She looked radiant in a light purple gown, which hugged her hips perfectly, all the way up to her chest where tiny dragonflies adorned the neckline. It showed a lot more skin than her usual northern dresses; this one had a southern style that gave ample view of her chest. Jon swallowed and looked up to her face quickly, hoping she hadn’t noticed his unchivalrous slip.

“You look very pretty tonight, Sansa,” he blurted out. _Bloody idiot. Why would you say that? She’s been called ‘pretty’ since she was five._ Jon did not know where the sudden need to please her had come from.

“Thank you, Jon. You’re kind to say so.” She smiled at him while touching his arm briefly.

The bards were singing of Florian the Fool and his Jonquil, and Sansa looked longingly at where the lords and ladies were gathering to dance. He knew that song was one of her favorites, along with the one about the love between the Prince of Dragonflies and Jenny of Oldstones, and the story of the Dragonknight and Queen Naerys. Jon froze. He was graceful with a blade in his hand, but not so much with dance steps. If he asked her to dance, he was more than likely to step on her toes and embarrass himself in front of the court and his father’s guests. Sansa smiled at him encouragingly, until Aegon swooped in wearing a fine doublet of crimson silk.

“Lady Sansa, you look completely stunning, I must say. Even more than usual, for my great astonishment.” His brother flashed her a white smile and kissed her hand before she could so much as curtsey. “Oh, hello, little brother. I’m not interrupting anything, am I?” He always called him thus; despite being less than a year older than Jon, Aegon was infuriatingly taller;

Jon met Sansa’s hopeful gaze. Her blue eyes seemed to glimmer, singing only for him, _take my hand, ask me for a dance.._. He could not do it, though, and the crestfallen look that took over her face when she realized no invitation was coming pulled at his heartstrings. His brother did not seem to notice.

“May I have this dance, sweet lady?” Aegon asked, offering his arm.

“Yes, my prince.”

Sansa raised her head and smiled politely. Jon clenched his fists as he watched Aegon whisker her away. _My prince_. The words echoed in his head.

He decided to sit at the table with his cousin Robb, attempting to take his mind off Sansa and Aegon. Jon felt closer to Robb than to his own brother, but soon enough he too got up, to dance with the pretty Tyrell girl, leaving Jon alone to mull over his dornish red. Soon he was sulking, looking from the bottom of his goblet to where Sansa was moving gracefully to the music. It seemed Jon was not the only one to notice her _attributes,_ as she spend the night with no shortage of suitors to partner her, all looking at her much less respectfully than he would have liked. At times Jon wanted to rise and have a talk with Lord Stark, but he seemed unbothered by the attention his eldest daughter was receiving, as if it was a normal occurrence. Did men fawn over her like this in the North as well? They must, Jon decided—aside from being beautiful, Sansa was the eldest daughter of the Warden of the North; it made sense that lords and knights from all over the realm would vie for her hand. At six-and-ten, she was a woman grown, ready to be wed. It was a wonder her mother and father had not arranged a match for her yet.

Jon went to bed well and truly drunk. That night, he dreamed not only of blue eyes and auburn hair but of full breasts and skin that felt impossibly soft under his palms. He could not resist taking himself in hand when he woke, whispering her name as the light of dawn crept in through his windows.

 

Jon left the training yard earlier that day. The sounds of chatter, horses and clashing steel ringing painfully inside his head. He noticed Sansa was missing from the group of ladies watching on from the edge of the courtyard. Deciding a quiet morning with his mother’s gods were just what he needed, Jon left for the godswood. Though it was scarcely comparable to the one at Winterfell, there was still a certain peace to be found at the place, much more than he ever found in a sept. He took the long way there, passing through the gardens with its roses full in bloom. Jon was not one to linger amongst the flowers, but he remembered how much Sansa loved them. He had bent halfway down to smell one of them when he heard voices approaching.

“…agreeable to such a match, Lady Stark?” Jon recognized his stepmother’s voice at once, jumping behind a bush to hide.

“Indeed, your grace. It would be a great honor.” It was not Sansa, he noted, but her mother. “Prince Aegon seems everything a young prince ought to be. Sansa should be delighted at the prospect of being queen. But my lord husband would need to think on it, I’m sure, before anything can…” They moved past him, their voices carrying away until Jon could no longer make out their words. _A match. Between Aegon and Sansa. Of course._ Jon felt a fool for not thinking of it before. He had imagined Sansa had come to join the court as one of the queen’s ladies, and Arya as well, to learn her courtesies, but why would all of the Starks need to come, with so many northerners in their retinue, if not for a wedding?

He rose at last, letting his feet take him to the godswood. Sitting by the great oak, Jon closed his eyes and took deep breaths until his heartbeat went back to normal. The silence calmed him, the only sounds coming from the light breeze that rustled the leaves of the trees around him. Jon said a prayer to the Old Gods, wondering if they could hear him all the way from the North, without a real weirwood nearby. As if in answer to his prayers, she walked in.

“Oh, I’m sorry, Jon, I didn’t mean to disturb your prayers. I’ll leave you—”

“No, don’t! I—you didn’t interrupt anything. Please stay, Sansa.”

“Thank you.” She smiled shyly before taking a seat next to him among the dragon’s breath that grew by the base of the tree.

“Do you come here often? I mean—” he sputtered, “I didn’t know you kept your father’s gods.”

“I didn’t know you kept your mother’s.” She smiled again. “I keep both, in truth. The septs here are much more beautiful than the ones in the North, but I find myself often missing the calmness of the Old Gods.”

“This place must be a disappointment, then.”

Her brows scrunched up slightly. “How so?”

Jon nodded to the tree behind them. “No weirwood. The heart tree is just some old oak.”

“It’s not so bad. It’s not _home_ , but…it does have its perks.”

“Certainly. On a good day, if the wind doesn’t blow too much, you can barely notice the smell wafting from the city.”

She giggled, and Jon wondered if that was the loveliest sound he’d ever heard. He set out to hear it again, and for what seemed the first time, they fell into an easy conversation, offering up some of the perks and the many flaws of the capital.

Jon was faced with many things he hadn’t noticed before about his cousin. Like the dimples that would grace her cheeks whenever she laughed hard enough, or how clever her quips could be. He delighted in her company for most of the day, until the sun sat lower on the horizon and basked everything around them in a golden-orange glow.

“Jon, you have a leaf in your hair.” She was smiling widely when she reached forward and plucked it from his head.

When her gaze met his, Jon was lost. Suddenly he realized how close she was, and the air around them felt stifling in its heat. He didn’t know whether or not he should speak, or what words; if he should move closer still; if he should touch her hand or her lips with his own. The thought of kissing her had him almost swallow his tongue. An eternity seemed to pass in which he tried to gather his courage, while his heart beat loud as a drum in his ears. Before he could move, though, Sansa looked down and away with a sigh.

“Will you be competing in the tourney, Jon?”

He had forgotten about that _._ The tourney was to take place in two days’ time. Jon was not one to seek glory in the lists; he left that honor to his half-brother, the crown prince. “No.”

Sansa tried to hide her sadness. “Oh. That’s a pity. I…I suppose you could still sit next to me in the stands, then? If you want.”

He nodded, staring stupidly at her back as she took her leave.

 

The next day saw Jon feeling exceptionally cheerful. He could not say why, but he walked everywhere with a spring in his step. After a morning of vigorous training, Jon washed away the sweat in his chambers while looking out the widow; the sky was clear blue, with not a cloud in sight, yet a light breeze made it pleasant instead of overtly warm. In sight of such a beautiful day, he decided to ask his cousins if they would like to accompany him for a ride in the Kingswood. He found Arya first, sneaking around the entrance to the dungeons.

“What are you doing?” He whispered behind her.

She jumped before turning to glare at him. “What are _you_ doing?”

“Looking for you and your siblings. It’s a nice day for a ride in the kingswood, what do you think?”

She hummed noncommittally. “I s’pose it is. I don’t know where Robb is—probably swapping spit with the Tyrell girl. Bran and Rickon are still at their lessons. And last I saw, Sansa was going for a walk in the gardens with Prince Aeg—Why are you making that face?”

“What face? I’m not making a face.”

Arya rolled her eyes at him. “Yes, you are. You look like someone just spat in your porridge. Out with it.”

“I do not!” He insisted.

“Alright, stupid,” she sighed. “Let’s go find Sansa, then.”

“Do you think she likes him?” Jon asked when they caught sight of the two. They walked side by side among the flowers; Aegon had his chest puffed out like a peacock as Sansa held onto his arm.

Arya frowned at him. “I don’t know. He’s just her type, isn’t he? All handsome and princely, like in the songs.”

_I’m a prince too_ , he almost interjected.

Aegon and Sansa took a seat at one of the stone benches that framed the walkways of the gardens. He got closer, seeming to pick something from her hair, and then, to Jon’s utter horror, Aegon kissed her on the lips. Before Jon could take notice of his own fury, he was charging towards them.

“Stop that!” Arya yelped as she held him back with both arms. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Stopping him!”

“From what? They’re just kissing.”

“He—he’s dishonoring her!”

“Don’t be silly, it’s just a kiss. See? It’s over already.” She pointed at them with her head, but Jon’s anger did not recede.

“He shouldn’t have done that! She’s not some wench in a tavern, she’s a highborn maid—”

“Why do you care so much? It’s just _Sansa_.”

_Just a kiss. Just Sansa. Why do I care?_

Jon imagined what it would be like, to sit next to Sansa and watch as Aegon or some other knight won the lists and her affections by crowning her his queen of love and beauty. Aegon would kiss her again and ask for her hand. He imaged Sansa walking into the Great Sept of Baelor in a beautiful ivory gown towards his half-brother, Aegon fastening his cloak upon her shoulders. And years into the future, Sansa’s belly growing with his brother’s child. _No. No, no, no_ , his insides screamed. It was too much. The images took the breath from him, hitting Jon like a punch to the gut. That would not do, he realized, and with no little astonishment—all this time, Jon had wanted her for himself.

Sensing his deflation, Arya released him from her surprisingly strong grip.

“I have to go.” He said finally, leaving a befuddled Arya behind him.

Without a shred of doubt left in his mind, he rushed to the armorer. His own armor was too recognizable, though not as embellished as Aegon’s, with the rubies and dragons his brother favored. Jon had a squire find him some nondescript plate that would fit him, and had it painted black as night. He prayed to the Old Gods of the North that his courage would not fail him on the morrow.

 

 

Sansa scanned the crowds, with no signs of Jon to be found. _I wish Jon were here,_ she rued as she finally took her seat among the high lords and ladies on the dais; the jousting would soon begin. He had said—well, nodded, truly—that he would be there by her side. Sansa should know better. In a rather exasperating development, and what she was sure was a cruel jape by the gods, Sansa had fallen for her cousin.

It was the other prince she was supposed to love—Aegon, the tall, gallant heir to the throne. She wasn’t stupid; she knew her parents meant to find her a suitable husband in the South, and despite the fact that her father had no love for the king, she knew he could hardly find a better match for her than Rhaegar’s son. Aegon was everything she’d wished for in a man since she was a little girl. He was fair where Jon was dark; charming and eloquent where Jon was shy and tight-lipped. He danced beautifully, sang and played the harp like his father, knew his courtesies and flattered her at every chance. Even their kiss on the previous day had been perfect—it was a sunny day, the flowers were blooming beautifully around them and his lips were gentle when they touched hers—but to her despair, no matter how hard she tried, she felt _nothing_. For some reason, when she closed her eyes, she found herself wishing it were Jon’s full lips she was kissing. It was dark curls and dark eyes she longed for, _dreamed of_ , instead of silver-blond and lilac.

Somehow, the quiet boy who would visit her home and play with her brothers over the years had become a man—brave, gentle and strong. A man who was brooding and coarse at times, yes, but beautiful and captivating in his own way…And a man who did not seem to return her feelings in the least. _I’m still a foolish girl, believing in a love like the songs. Except in life there’s no Aemon the Dragonknight, and I’m no Queen Naerys._

She resigned herself to the rejection, looking on as the first pair of knights entered the field. One of her father’s men unhorsed a young knight from the Vale with great difficulty, and then Prince Aegon broke three lances at a lordling from the Reach before being declared the winner of that match. Her brother Robb sent a Frey flying from his horse, to Bran and Rickon’s utter delight. On and on it went. Her little brothers kept cheering and hooting a few seats down, but Sansa felt little excitement despite the spectacle around her. Until, that is, a mystery knight entered the lists and piqued her interest. He wore plain black armor and a shaggy sheepskin cloak dyed black; his shield carried the image of a weirwood tree, with a carved face smiling on its trunk in a deep red. Despite all that black, he rode a white destrier, its silver-grey mane shining under the sun as he galloped forward. The man had an arduous challenge ahead of him, being faced with a knight of the Kingsguard on his first bout. When he managed to unhorse his opponent, the crowd went up in awe, and soon they started cheering for this mystery knight.

Sansa was, rather absurdly, drawn to him—she wouldn’t even blink whenever it black knight kicked his horse into a gallop, lest she miss out on crucial split moment as he rode fast as the wind and locked his lance on its target. One by one, he knocked his opponents to the ground, even famed ones like the Knight of Flowers and The Hound. Before she knew it, he had bewitched her, and she was rooting for him with encouraging words under her breath.

When the last bout of the day approached, between the mystery knight and the crown prince, the crowd was buzzing with excitement. Sansa heard a dozen different stories being spun about the black knight—he was a man of the night’s watch who had deserted his post; or a bastard from the north looking for glory; or even a wildling from the lands beyond the Wall, who could slip into the minds of beasts as easily as donning his cloak. Each was more outlandish than the next, but deliciously entertaining. The people’s support seemed split now—as much as the mystery knight had earned their blessings, he was up against the heir to the throne, who made a dashing sight in his shiny armor encrusted with rubies and his flowing red cloak.

At last, they rode forward. The hooves of their horses seemed to thunder on the ground as they galloped towards each other, and Sansa’s heartbeat followed in the same frantic rhythm. They both lowered their lances and took aim, getting closer and closer at breathtaking speed, until one hit the other’s metal plate and snapped, issuing a loud crack that echoed throughout the field; in the blink of an eye, Aegon was being thrown from the back of his horse and into the dirt with a violent crash. His squire ran to the prince at once to check for wounds, easing the tension in the crowds when he helped Aegon to rise and walk without evident injuries.

When the black knight removed his helm, the noise was deafening.

It was Jon.

 

 

Jon’s heart was beating like a drum in his chest. He had done it. He had won the tourney. Taking off his helm, he trotted up to receive the wreath of blue roses, which he could now use to crown his queen of love and beauty. He scanned the boxes for her, keeping his eyes out for a hint of red hair. Finally, he found her, with her mouth ajar and her eyes already fixed on him. He kept her gaze as he urged his mount forward, stopping right in front of her. After climbing off his horse, he stretched out his arm and offered her the crown. She looked around her to see if he really meant _her_ , to which he smiled and nodded. When she climbed down to the edge of the stands, still with a disbelieving look on her face, he felt his chest flutter.

“Sansa, will you be my queen of love and beauty?”

She nodded wordlessly, her eyes moist with tears. Jon felt lost.

“Why are you crying, sweetling?” He asked, bringing a hand to her cheek.

“I- I thought you didn’t-” She swallowed. “You like me? Truly?” Sansa looked at him in disbelief.

“More than I can say.” He looked into her eyes, trying to pass through them the feelings he could not form into words. “May I?” He gestured toward the flowers in his other hand, asking for her permission, which she gave, this time with a breathy _yes_.

Jon laid the crown on her head with both hands, staring in wonder as the color of the winter roses brought out the blue of her eyes. She was a vision. _My queen of love and beauty._

“May I kiss you?”

She nodded again, closing her eyes and waiting for his lips to meet hers. With a light head, as if in a dream, he leaned forward and claimed her lips. It was better than his dreams—his mind could not have conjured the soft feel of her lips, the warmth of her mouth, even the tentative wetness of her tongue. It didn’t even come close to the reality he was experiencing now. After what felt like a long moment, but still much too soon to his liking, Sansa pulled back, her face flushing a bright pink as she looked around, and only then did Jon notice the crowd whistling and cheering loudly at them. He looked up to his father on his high seat, hoping he would not disapprove. With great relief, Jon found him smiling at him; he had hoped his own act of heroic romanticism would remember him of how he crowned his mother at the tourney of Harrenhal. Jon hoped it would soften his heart again when he asked for Sansa’s hand in marriage.

Jon locked eyes with Sansa again, finding the same joy he felt reflected back at him. _She is mine, and I am hers._ Deciding he didn’t give a fig about the crowd, Jon kissed her again.

  

 

 


End file.
